Only when accelerating can you feel the motion
by AboutMoving
Summary: Daine and Numair, starting on the boat from Carthak. A peace which may or may not be so innocent. In seven parts.
1. On the boat from Carthak

**Chapter 1.**

**On the boat from Carthak, a peace which may or may not be so innocent.**

_._

_The hypnotic effects of the sea voyage_

_Could probably be blamed on the mermaids_

_Who are drunk and up to no good down below_

_Making the waves beat in such a way_

_That he can feel her breast on his arm every time the boat sways._

.

Numair thinks it has been a really long time since he has been this particular combination of seasick, drunk, hung-over, and in shock. But they are half-way between what may as well be two different worlds, and he has been drinking Alanna's questionably-medicinal brew (with questionably-beneficial effects; he is still as sea-sick as ever), so all he can do for now is smile half-druggedly at Daine, who is tucked away into the corner of his bunk, chatting happily about what she learned from the dolphins. All things considered, he could be in a worse mood.

She smiles back and shakes her head at him.

"You're in a state." She informs him. She's right. It's odd – this sudden change of pace, of setting. There aren't many distractions on the boat. He spends a lot of time thinking ("You think too much," Daine likes to say). He thinks of Ozorne. And also of Ozorne fifteen years ago, when his eyes were full of something else, not hate, and they stood shoulders pressed together and were young and bright and, arguably, in love. He thinks of Varice – who is brilliant but who never wanted that brilliance, and that is her tragedy. Of Lindhall, who had been whithering and who would have continued to whither into nothingness. He thinks of the slaves, the animals, the thick heavy heat of Carthak, its syrupy flavors, deep poisonous currents, and the walls of the palace sticky with magic. And Daine, in all the purity and fire of her spirit, amidst that muck. With its sticky tendrils creeping up and over to her. He feels a swell of protectiveness, and something else he can't quite name, but its not a bad feeling.

"Scoot." He says, getting up and moving over to sit next to her on the bunk. She does, and settles into the curve of his side, and sighs a happy little sigh, and he tightens his arm around her. It's a narrow space so he can feel her press all along his length, a fluid line of warmth.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing, he thinks, to have this week-long repose imposed. The first few days after – everything – things had been a little awkward between them. She'd been intermittently possessive and frustrated with him. He even thought she was angry with him when he spent a night, again, with Varice. But the boat ride had rocked them back into an equilibrium. Away from a court of judging eyes, they spend time together as before, in an innocent peace.

He vaguely notes that her mood has shifted from the light chatter moments ago. He is not sure if this is because he moved to sit with her. He thinks of asking, but before he can, she turns a little more into his side, and says, as though reading his mind,

"I'm OK, I promise. This is just – it's nice. I know this sounds crazy, but I almost wish we could stay here for longer. There's just a lot to deal with, once we get to home. And I do want to see Cloud, and Onua and my Rider friends, and everyone. But there's a lot of other stuff, too. And this feels – protected."

"I know." He responds.

She twists around a little more and smiles up at him, and he feels all the love and trust and warmth that's in her gaze. It's like physical temperature change in the room.

He pushes a couple of curls from her face, and then – just because he can, just because it's them, they're alone, there's no one else, there's no reason for him to stop – he continues, running his fingers down the curve of her cheek. Her skin is soft and warm, just a little weathered by the salt winds above, and he vaguely wonders why it had never occurred to him to do this particular motion before. He retraces the path a number of times, though it's different, because she leans into his hand, a little, and now his entire palm is touching her face.

He must be drunk, or drugged, or hypnotized by the rocking boat and the warmth and stillness of the cabin. But again there is no good reason to stop – so he slides his hand over her shoulder. He feels the delicate line of her collar bone. His fingers press to the pulse point at her neck (the skin _so soft _just there) and he vaguely half-notes that it flutters a little fast. She doesn't say anything, but very quietly exhales. There is a part of him that knows that his breath has quickened too, and there's a tightness stirring in his belly and groin that's familiar, but not this this setting. That part of him is very far away. Maybe back with his sensible, perfectly sober self in the bright lights of the shoreline. In this cabin, it is dim. There's a pleasant buzzing in his head, and his skin feels extra sensitive. Especially where he is touching her.

He traces his hand down her side, feels the outlines of her rips through her shirt. A small voice in the back of his mind says, maybe he should stop this, maybe this is not an appropriate thing to do. But that voice is far away and noncomitant. His face feels warm, and when his fingers catch the bit of skin over her hip where her shirt had ridden up, she arches up just a little bit into him. He turns his face into her curls, she smells like the sea now, but he likes the warmth of her nearness.

She makes a very quiet little noise when he absently brushes her hip bone. He's not aware that he catalogues it.

And he thinks about taking it further without really thinking about it. What it would be like to drop the pretense of the light touch and take his palm, broad and firm, and press it down her thigh. And hook her knee, pulling it over his leg, to bring them even closer, pressed along the entire length of their bodies. And he would slide his hand, almost rough and almost drunk, all the way up against the skin of her back to her neck line. And feel her arms intertwine around his neck. And she would turn her face against the side of his head and he would hear her breathing, quick and a little shaky. And –

His mind doesn't go any further, it stops right there as though there's an invisible magical force field. Because at this point, his idea about their relationship still stands rock solid. He's not even aware there's something more to go on to. He slows his motion, just traces a small, barely significant pattern against her shoulder.

Eventually she drifts to sleep, and he magics his black robe over to them, draping it like a blanket. He falls asleep with her right there, his hand curled around to rest flat against the small of her back, underneath her bunched up shirt. It doesn't occur to him to be truly self-conscious about their relationship until a few days later, when Alanna, green and queasy, fixes him with an intense violet gaze and says,

"I think you need to be careful, Numair."

.

.

**A/N:** I have always loved this series, and I love these two in particular. So it's coming out. Standard disclaimers apply.


	2. A nauseous warning

**2.**

**A nauseous warning. When not puking, Alanna keeps it real. **

.

_If anyone, ever again, says something about the poetry of sea faring_

_He will most likely turn them into something_

_Seaworthy._

_He misses solid ground beneath his feet,_

_Both literally_

_And metaphorically. _

.

Alanna'a face is a study of color. Because her brews aren't getting any better, just having a cumulatively off-putting effect, it takes Numair a few moments to realize that she's trying to discuss something serious with him. He focuses back on her face.

"I think you need to be careful, Numair." She says. Her eyes are extra-violet, her skin has a greenish tint, and her hair clashes terribly. He blinks at her a couple of times.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Daine." She pauses expectantly as he frowns at her. "I'm telling you this because I know you don't mean any harm – you can just be pretty clueless sometimes, especially about things like this. This is something I wanted to talk to you about since the incident in Carthak." Numair's frown deepens, he feels the stirrings of annoyance.

"Gods, Alanna, not you too. Don't tell me you've found palace gossips even on this cursed ship, and decided to sidle up to them. I know you're feeling sick but –"

"Stop that." She interrupts him. Then she adds, stern, but gentle. "I'm not talking about gossips. And you know me better than that. I'm talking about _Daine._"

Something unpleasantly twists in his stomach. He has a feeling that he doesn't want to hear what she has to say, and that whatever it is he should probably know it already. Shame, or a feeling close to it, before it has a target for what to be ashamed of, creeps up. He grips the rail, because he is seasick, and may vomit. This is why they have been standing out here in the first place. Alanna continues.

"And now – I know she slept in your rooms the last two nights. No, I know that nothing like _that _is going on—" she stops him when he opens his mouth to interrupt, "And I know the two of you think you can live in some sort of bubble outside of caring about her reputation or yours – I understand that, too, I've been there. That's not what I'm talking about.

"Daine is growing up, Numair. She's not a child anymore. And the way you interact with her – I think you're starting to blur lines that maybe you shouldn't be."

He wouldn't stand this conversation, if it were coming from anyone else in the world but Alanna. Possibly, not even then, if he were not trapped at the edge of the boat by a continuously-churning stomach. He _hates_ this conversation. He hates the implication that there is something corrupt about the beautiful bond he shares with his student and friend. He thinks their connection is pure, delicate and wonderful – and unlike one he has ever shared with anyone. The talk that sullies this bond is all more distasteful when it comes from his friends – when it's not a stupid gossip that he can brush off.

And maybe, he is terrified of uncovering what his real stance might be on their relationship. He does not want to think about it deeply because, for once, maybe he doesn't want to learn. But admitting even that at this point is out of his reach. His nausea reels. Alanna keeps talking.

"She spends _all_ her time with you. And yes I know you're her teacher but you're also – _older_, and you're a _legend_, and she has such a deep love for you already. Do you understand what I'm saying? You're putting the two of you in a position where if you're not careful – she just won't have a _choice _but to develop certain feelings. And what are you going to do then? She is fifteen years old. And she's not just someone – she's _our Daine_. I _know_, Numair, I understand – what the two of you have is incredibly special. But I don't want something like this to ruin things between you. And I care for her very much, too. I feel it is my place to speak up for her."

She punctuates the last statement by bending over the edge of the boat and violently heaving. Numair pinches his nose and tries not to listen to her – he's sure if he does he'll turn inside out, too.

.

.

A/N: Of course someone would notice. Of course Alanna would speak up.

Standard disclaimers apply.


	3. Beautiful, buxom, mature

Chapter summary: This feeling has a name, Daine, but you will learn it later. (Daine's growing up is not all about Numair. But mostly it is.)

**3.**

**Beautiful, buxom, mature**

.

_You get your young girls drunk_

_"__On wine on poetry on virtue"_

_You spin them around and play them your tunes and pour them just one more. _

_And then you blame them_

_When they are throwing up at your feet?_

_._

The winter she turns sixteen is the first time Daine decides to drink at the palace festivities.

She doesn't think she gets completely drunk, but she does go through all the equivalent stages. Starting with giggling against Miri in the loud smoky hall, and ending somewhere more morose when, later in the night, the Riders begin to head off to bed, sometimes in pairs.

Miri and Evin are still sitting with her, though, though she suspects they want to pair off together, too. But they're being wonderful and best friends and so lovely to her. When Evin brings over a bottle of something and starts pulling them outside, he makes a point that Daine is coming too, and Miri takes her hand, so she follows, and feels only a little bit awkward about it.

(She's not used to having this as the problem. Somewhere between the wars, the immortals, the trouble with madness, fleeing her country, and the blossoming of her magic, she missed this stage – of teenage floundering).

There are bonfires in the meadow where they exercise ponies in summer, with bubbling pots of hot mead and cider set out, and musicians wondering around, competing with the off-tune drunken bawling of the party goers. All the Rider troops have come out, most of the palace staff, and even some of the nobles (ones that aren't above this sort of thing). It's loud and rambunctious and fun.

They stand towards the outer edges around the fire, part of the mass but still a little separate so they can still be just together. Evin drapes a hang over her shoulders and passes her the bottle – whatever it is burns way more than the wine going down, and Daine coughs a little. But Evin and Miri are laughing and it makes her laugh too.

"What _is_ that?" Daine chokes. Evin takes the bottle from her and takes a big swig, and passes it to MIri. They're both slightly taller than Daine so they smile at each other over her. They're also both slightly more drunk – she can feel Evin swaying a little because he's sort of holding on to her.

"We're contributing to your education!"

"That's right - we can't leave _everything_ to Master Numair!" Miri giggles. "I'm _sure _there are subjects that he won't cover with you. Or _un_cover with you." They both burst out laughing again.

Daine thinks that's a sexual innuendo, but she doesn't really want to deal with that right now, especially not from Evin and Miri. So she takes it as a comment about the drinking. She grins at them and takes the bottle back from Miri.

"I'm ready to be educated."

"Atta girl!" Say Evin, and swings her around in a dance-of-sorts for a while.

It's not even that cold, between the fire and the whiskey and the three of them standing pressed up against each other. They stay out for awhile, and Daine feels relaxed and happy and light.

Then Evin starts playing with her hair and Miri keeps holding her hand. She feels Miri's cheek press against her own (cool and smooth). And Miri is laughing and wonderful, and Daine thinks, Miri could probably talk to the whales, too, if she wanted to, she probably grew up talking to them without even realizing. She's feeling so much love and affection for her friend, and Evin's hands are warm where they're touching her neck, he's standing right behind her and she can feel his voice rumble even through her coat. Miri's cheek is cool and she's still holding her hand, there's brawling music, and happy screams, and the fire is orange casting blue shadows on the snow. Everything is spinning just a little bit so that she feels so light, and then Miri kisses her, with cool chapped lips, on the mouth.

Daine's heart skips and flips over.

She stays there for just a moment, then comes to her senses and pulls back fast.

She can't go very far because she's still standing right against Evin, whose laugh (warm and without any malice) is reverberating though her back. Miri grins at her. Her eyes are bright, with dancing reflections of the firelights. She leans in again, kisses the corner to Daine's mouth, then kisses her fully again. Daine's heart beats fast. She doesn't know what to make of it, but it's not unpleasant. For her first kiss.

"Not a part of your usual lessons?" Miri laughs when she pulls back, seeing the slightly dazed expression on Daine's face.

"Or is it?" Suggests Evin.

It's a little too much, to have the image of Numair come up in between all of this. She shakes her head vigorously. Miri squeezes her hand and steps back, smiling. They're still being her friends. They're not pushing anything. Evin passes her the bottle again, and he doesn't try to kiss her.

.

.

.

The two of them do leave eventually (together), but Daine tells them she wants to stay by the fire a little longer. She's too on-edge and confused to head to bed yet. She's about to get morose as well, but feels a familiar presence in the corner of her mind. It's Tahoi! Which means Onua is probably nearby, as well. Daine can't think of anyone she wants to be with more right now. Onua is the most straightforward person she knows. Things are never confusing with Onua.

Daine follows a thin line of her magic to Tahoi. It's a little bit hard to walk in a straight line but she feels proud of herself for not stumbling.

Onua is sitting with her head in her hands, and Daine doesn't really understand what is going on when the other woman sees her, rolls her eyes, and starts laughing.

"Oh no," says Onua. "Not you, too." Then Daine sees that, just a few feet from Onua, a girl – one of this year's newest and youngest Rider recruits – is on her knees, throwing up. Daine sways, a little queasy at the sight. Then realizes what Onua is implying.

"No! I'm not. I'm fine. I'm not even – " Her cheeks are red, but Onua doesn't really seem to care. She sighs as Daine sits down next to her (making it a point of being graceful and purposeful and not at all sloppy). The girl moans a little. "Is she OK?" Daine asks.

"Numair went to bring reinforcements. She's fine – but her troop rides out tomorrow morning to a new winter training camp. I tell Sarge this every time – they may be soldiers, but they're still – _so young_." She looks sideways at Daine again for a moment. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm fine." Daine says quickly.

Numair comes up to them, with him a woman. Daine starts to feel weary before she even realizes why. It's clear, even though there's nothing you could put your finger on, from the way they're walking together, from the way they stand – there's something going on between them. Daine doesn't often meet these women – Numair tends to keep that part of his life separate from her. She tries not to stare.

"Hello, Daine." Numair says, smiling at her. She thinks of Miri's chapped lips and the comment –_not a part of your usual lessons? _

Daine thinks she probably just feels weird about it because of the things Evin and Miri were saying. And the other things that happened tonight. It's all just on her mind and jumbled up with the alcohol. She never gets silly like this.

Numair introduces the woman, who smiles at Daine briefly before she goes over to the Rider girl and kneels besides her. She's lovely, of course. She's tall and golden-haired and with a generous swell to her bosom. She puts her hands on the girl's shoulders and nothings extremely obvious happens, but the girl's wretching stops. They stay still like that for several minutes.

Daine looks back and sees Numair watching the scene, smiling just slightly.

_Of course_ he likes her. She's beautiful and magical, she's probably talented and experienced and mature. She probably has a boudoir. She probably wears lace.

The image of Numair with a woman in lace undergarments comes up forcefully before her eyes. Daine scowls.

"She just needs to sleep it off, now." She hears Numair's lover say.

"I'll take her back." Onua says. She pulls the girl up, who is crying and saying something apologetic. Onua clucks impatiently. She's stern and no-nonsense, but she cares so much about the Riders. She's the kindest at moments like these. They head towards to barracks.

Daine turns and realizes that Numair is looking at her closely. She feels horribly self-conscious because that means the woman at his side is also looking at her, frustratingly patient and serene.

"Stop trying to figure out if I'm drunk, Numair." She snaps. His eyebrows shoot up. Daine wants to rear for a fight. The woman leans over to whisper something in his ear, he nods, and she retreats.

"I wasn't." He says, taken aback. "I thought you looked upset. Is everything alright?" Daine stares at him, her face burning. She _is_ upset, but it's ridiculous.

"I'm fine."

"Did something happen?"

She wants to shout _who is that!_ and _what are you doing?!_ and maybe something incomprehensible and maybe something else.

"I said I was _fine_ Numair. You don't have to baby me. I'm not a _child._"

Numair looks stunned. "Very well." He says. She thinks he looks a little sad, too. He touches her hair lightly and briefly.

"I will see you tomorrow, Magelet."

And he turns around and starts walking back inside – inside where his beautiful talented fantastically-Gifted buxom lover is waiting in her lace underthings. Daine sinks back down to the log. There is a bump against her side, and she turns to wrap her arms around Tahoi gratefully. She buries her fingers in the dog's thick fur. Humans are just too hard, sometimes, she thinks. Tears are hot on her face.

.

Then, two weeks later, the barrier collapses, and things change.

.

.

_A/N: Three chapters in a row where someone is drunk and/or vomiting – how far can we take this trend? The second line in the poem is from Baudelaire's "Be Drunk". All other standard disclaimers apply. _


	4. In dreams and memories

**iv) Fighting battles for peace and innocence, you have already lost. **

.

_In your hangover, you misunderstood:_

_These battles that you're drinking to forget_

_Have already been decided_

_In dreams_

_And memories._

_. _

The inn is dirty and loud, the innkeeper unsympathetic.

"One room left." He says, voice gruff.

"That's fine. We'll have it."

Numair is aware of the man running his eyes over Daine behind him, but his gaze is indifferent enough. The war, in its short span, has worn down even the gossips. Numair himself is too drained to raise an indignant protest at the implications of an older man traveling alone with a young, beautiful woman. Exhaustion has settled so deep into his body that it feels like a permanent part of him, and emotional resources have to be rationed, also.

"We'll take supper upstairs." Numair says to the innkeeper

He can wait, he thinks tiredly, not watching Daine but constantly aware of her presence as they arrange themselves in the single room. His midwinter realization had been both burden and salvation through the already bloody months of the Immortals War. Difficult as it has been to come to terms with the change in their relationship, it has now become the one thing in his life that is of light, hope, and loveliness. His love for her is a single oasis amid the darkness and heavy archaic magic, the one thing of life amid the death and destruction.

He can wait, because if there is one thing that he has learned from wielding the most powerful Gift in the world, it is self-control. Not always readily apparent in other areas of his life, he can apply it when he needs to.

So it is not difficult for him to avert his eyes and turn slightly away as she begins to strip down to her underthings to prepare for bed.

"Do you want any dinner?" He asks, pointedly ignoring the treacherous reflection of the room's interior in the candle-lit window. She crawls under the covers and smiles at him from a nest of blankets.

"No. I'm exhausted. I'm just going to fall asleep forever. I'm so happy to have a bed to sleep in tonight."

"Alright then." He smiles back, looking now at the window and meeting her gaze in the reflection. She looks at him easily, and he is by now familiar with the stirring in his chest that this look evokes. He allows himself to enjoy the quickened heart rate and the subtle warmth for a few moments before softly pushing it down. "Sweet dreams, then."

A short while later there is a soft tapping on the window, and he opens it to allow cool night air inside. It is followed by Tkaa and Kitten. The dragonet scampers gracelessly to Daine right away, but Tkaa follows more slowly with a prize: a Stormwing crown hanging around his scaled wrist like an over-sized bracelet.

"A snack." He explains, yellow eyes blinking in an almost amused fashion. "And I brought you a gift as well."

Out of a pouch he pulls out a flask and hands it to Numair, who almost laughs as he takes it. _That bad? _He thinks, opening it to smell the contents and feeling pleased to find it strong and clean. He knows Tkaa isn't very good at reading or understanding the emotions of mortals – that they learned very early on in their acquaintance. Bemusedly, he wonders just how bad he must look that the basilisk reached the conclusion on his own that he needed a drink.

They don't talk as they eat because there is not much to say and he doesn't want to disturb Daine. The only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the scrapes and clunks as Tkaa pops precious gems out of the Stormwing crown. Numair finishes a third of the flask and goes to bed, stretching out on top of the covers on the other side of the bed from Daine. There is enough distance between, and they have shared much smaller sleeping spaces. It is not sexual. But he enjoys her nearness, and the fact that he can hear her soft breathing as he falls asleep.

.

He dreams restlessly. He is sitting besides sixteen-year-old Ozorne on the banks of the Zakoi river. Ozorne is laughing and tanging his fingers in the curls of Numair's hair, cut short back then to the nape of his neck. His eyes are burning, but there is no malice or madness in them yet.

"What are we doing?" Numair asks, unsure if it's himself or sixteen-year-old Arram speaking. Ozorne's skin is hot, and in addition to the dream-induced confusion he feels a trace of the giddy excitement from that time.

"Together we are all-powerful." Ozorne says softly. "We will take over the world, or we can destroy it if we like!"

Arram laughs too. He is young and excited by their love and is just beginning to realize the extent of his own power. His Gift is spilling out of him like an open faucet so that they are sitting in a pool of their own magic. Ozone is making images of fantastical birds and magical beasts appear and fade in the shimmering fire as their colors mix together like oil spilled in the sun. That itself is more intimate than any touch.

"We are as Gods." Ozorne continues, because they are drunk off each other and off their magic to the point of blasphemy. "We can create or we can destroy. Which do you want to do first?"

.

Numair awakens, and stares and the ceiling in the now-dark room. Ozorne was fire. His passion, his brilliance and his ambition had burned – until they consumed him. Until he became charred and insane, deformed beyond recognition. But before that, years ago, that fire had drawn Numair irresistibly. He was young and in awe. It was like jumping Beltane flames – always with a rush of adrenaline, a racing heart, and just almost out of control.

But with Daine – it's nothing like that. Her power over him is constant and steady. She flows like a river – cool, patient, and deep. She is permanent.

He can wait.

.

It is not true that she had never thought about it.

Half-asleep, Daine watches him and Tkaa silhouetted against the fire, an outline of mage and basilisk like a bizarre engraving from a dream. And in this storybook space, what she struggles with is a smattering of guilt – that here, alone with him, she feels a little bit content.

She could never figure out how to live, really live, normally in Tortall. Things keep becoming complicated, in ways she's either not ready or not willing to deal with, much too fast and much too often. But worst of all, over the past year and a half, as she has gotten older, she has realized more and more that he is really not _all_ _hers. _And that is hard to come to terms with, given how close he feels when it's just the two of them.

It's not just the deep, dark tunnels of his magic, down which no one can follow him except maybe Alanna, that take him from her. It's not just Ozorne, and the mystery of whatever happened between them many years ago that she still does not really understand. Not the heaviness of his past. Some of it is very basic, very simple…

… And she is thirteen years old again, pushing open the door to his rooms, late in the evening – without knocking.

She supposes that she had known even back then, theoretically, that there were women in his life. Joking comments from Onua, or even whispered gossip amongst the Riders, all gave clear signal of it. But even at that point, so early on in their relationship, she had already developed strong sense of possessiveness of him. With her, he was like with no one else, and that made her feel as though he was her's more that anyone's. And so the women existed – only very much in the abstract.

"Hello?" Says musical voice, light and curious.

Daine stops short in her tracks. In the chair by the fire there is a woman, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers. She is wearing Numair's Black robe and – from her long bare legs crossed beautifully in front of the fire, to the outline of her collarbones and the plunge of her neckline – it seems like nothing underneath. Golden curls fall around her face in a beautiful disarray. Daine stares.

She has never seen a woman like this before. She didn't know women like this existed in the real world.

"Yes?" The woman says patiently, serenely, as Daine stands shell-shocked. The woman sees in her nothing but a maybe-magical wild-child, hair in a tangle and clothing stained with bird droppings – just another curiosity from her companion's long collection. "Would you like to come further in?"

Daine is incredibly clumsy and unsure.

"Hello," she clears her throat. "Um..."

Numair walks into the room and Daine feels redness burn across her face. He is shirtless and barefoot, his hair un-bound around his shoulders, a very faint gleam of sweat over his skin. She feels something else but she has no word for this feeling yet.

It is painfully, blatantly obvious that she is interrupting,

"Oh, Daine!" He says. He sounds surprised but not angry or displeased to see her. He even smiles at her as though everything is OK. "What brings you here?"

Her face is burning and she cannot look him in the eye, but on his neck there is a faint pink bruise, and on his chest there is a slight film of sweat, and she cannot ignore the thin line of hair trailing down from his navel. With no safe place to look, she stares at his feet.

"I'm very _very_ sorry." She stammers. "I have to go."

"Daine—"

But she has already whirled around and practically ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

She leans her head slowly against the wood, eyes shut tight in mortification. And because she's standing there, still pressed up against the door, she hears a laughing female voice from the inside,

"She is so sweet, my darling. Though perhaps next time we should lock the door?"

.

And Daine is too sleepy, too drained, too pre-occupied with the world going mad around them all the time to really explore this feeling. But one thing that she understands is that, despite how horrific everything is right now, this part of it she likes. When it's just the two of them, and their magical companions, and no one else.

She reaches out across the darkness and puts her hand on his shoulder. He immediately opens his eyes and turns his head to her. He smiles softly, and reaches to cover her hand with his own, squeezing her fingertips gently. They are in the eye of the storm, together, and that feels almost as protected as a rocking cabin crossing the sea from Carthak.

**.**

**.**

A/N: This had to be squeezed out, to put it mildly. I find the period of time between Numair's realization and the Realms the trickiest to write about. But it is smooth sailing after this.

And no one got even that drunk in this chapter.


	5. In Tents

_You hide your love_

_In tents_

_Like flames inside a lantern _

_But fire shines through the canvas walls_

_And color gives it meaning_

_._

The first thing Numair is aware of, even before opening his eyes, is a soft violet light. And though his body feels utterly broken, the panic begins to subside immediately, because for the greater part of his adult life that light has meant _Alanna_ and that has meant _safe. _

She is sitting on the cot next to him, both hands firm on his chest, eyes closed in concentration. He is aware of her magic filling him, holding him up from the inside. She is preventing him from collapsing in on himself because he has nothing, not a single drop of his own magic, to hold himself up.

She feels the change in his awareness and looks at him, smiling slightly, as his vision focuses.

"Hi." He says, his voice hoarse.

"Hi," She replies. He watches her lashes flutter close to end the spell, and still feels her presence within him, as though a part of her is curled up inside his chest wall. It's warm and comforting, like a cat. Magic is baffling.

"Why does it feel like I'm always dragging you from the brink of a magical collapse, Arram?" She asks. For a moment he is confused and twenty-two again, and she is the only one who can save him. But quickly the years come back and he remembers –Inar, the torn earth, the utter emptiness inside him as he sends his last magic against the enemy mage – she slips like this sometimes, when she's feeling the most protective of him, reverting back to his given name. He's not sure exactly what happened to him, but this means that it was bad.

"What is the last thing you remember?" Alanna asks.

_Moist soft earth, light filtering through willow branches, the sound of a pony choosing its path through rock. _

"Where is Daine?" He asks sharply.

Alanna's hands are still firm against his chest, even though she is not witching anymore, preventing him from springing up.

"She is here, she's fine. She has been in and out to check on you. You collapsed – a mile away from Legann, when they were bringing you back. No one had realized how much you'd over-drained yourself. You were literally crashing in when I got to you." Alanna smiles at him again, warm and protective, and also very tired. Then suddenly her face crumbles, and her eyes brim over with tears, "Arram – I am so glad that you are alive!"

He moves, even though this causes a band of fire to flare around his ribs, to reach his hand over and clasp her fingers on his chest. She squeezes back tightly.

"There, hush." He says, finding it almost ridiculous to be comforting her from his own deathbed. "I am here, aren't I?"

_Light filtering through the branches of a willow, swaying like a translucent veil in the wind. The beating of her heart, like a small wild bird, against his chest. Her mouth, hot and willing against his. Her fingers, grasping firmly against his shoulders._

"The Gods were willing."

"The Gods were willing." Echoes Alanna.

She pushes away tears with the heal of her hand, and he looks, really looks at her. She is grey-pale, her eyes watery and red, her lips chapped and weathered so much they are cracked with dried blood. Her hair is cropped short and uneven, as though sliced with the blade of sword. Though she is wearing no armor now, her undershirt is stained with sweat and blood in the form of her breast plate. And the half-delirious comment that he was about to make dies in his throat – that at heart, he truly does believe – he is alive not by chance, but by holy intervention. His survival of the duel: a divine gift – for Daine, from the Gods, for her service. But he looks at Alanna, with her bloody lips and shorn hair, her own magic half-drained in holding him up, and understands that this moment is about more than him and Daine. And that Alanna may need him almost as much as he needs her right now to keep him alive.

"How are you holding up?" He asks, still holding her hand.

She signs, the long harsh sign of someone who hasn't had anyone to talk to in a long time. And she hadn't. She had been the mortal Champion fighting an unwinnable war against the Gods on earth. He had been gone.

"I'm so tired, Arram." She says quietly. "I'm so tired of this war. And it's over – but it's not really over, is it? And I just want to go home. I want to see my children. I want to fuck my husband. I haven't seen him in a year, Numair." Her voice almost breaks.

He strokes her fingers, because that's all he can do. He has learned the names for so many of his emotions, but he doesn't have one for what he feels for Alanna. A lot of love, a lot of affection. A lot of possessiveness, protectiveness, gratitude and obligation. He wouldn't be alive if it weren't for her, many times over. And he remembers Jon's words, at the end of his very first meeting with the King of Tortall. It was the last thing he had expected the incomprehensible monarch to say to him.

_"__Alanna is very easy to fall in love with." Jon looks at him from behind the desk. "But I suggest you do not go down that path, Arram. She is not for you." He smiles, almost sympathetically, as though there is something else he would say to that if he could. "She is married, she has a child... And besides – you'd be much to tall for her!"_

_And a twenty-two-year-old high treason fugitive from the most powerful kingdom in the world isn't one to take condescending love advice from other men. But somehow, he listens to Jon then, and over time what blossoms from his relationship with Alanna is a different, more precious kind of love. _

"They're alright? George, Pirate's Swoop?" He asks, to shake the memory and bring himself back to the present.

Alanna nods. "They're waiting. I will escort Jon to Corus, and then I can finally go home. We ride out in five days. I expect you should be OK by then without me. But I don't think you'll be able travel for a few weeks. You'll remain in Legann until you are well. Daine already said she will stay with you." Alanna smiles again, even though this causes her lip to crack and start bleeding again, and he simultaneously marvels how quickly her mood can change, wonders how much she knows. "She insisted."

.

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A/N: I ended up deciding to take down what was originally the second half of this chapter - it never sat quite right with me, and I since I don't know how many opportunities I'll get to write this kind of story, I wanted to get it right. On the plus side, now there will be seven chapters, because of course we have to make it to the bath-houses in the end :)


	6. In Tents, Part Two

In Tents, Part Two

The other tent, the other love.

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Onua is drinking from a clay jar of fermented mere's milk while they work, and as they wrestle leather straps for horse bridles, the small space becomes permeated with the sour smell of the brew, until Daine tries to skip every other breath to hold the gathering headache at bay. She has been lightheaded for hours. But Onua's face is gaunt and tense, and Daine thinks she is dealing with her grief, fear, and helplessness in her own way.

"—he's in good spirits, though." Daine is saying, talking around her breaths to keep her mind off the nausea. "Alanna's willing to let him out of her sight, now, too. He doesn't have to stay with her anymore" Onua makes a noncommittal sound, but Daine feels a tugging in her belly as she says those words.

They generally avoid talking about Numair, except for brief updates Daine brings from Alanna's tent. It had been a difficult few days. They had had already reached sight of Legann's battlements when he had stopped short, said, in a surprised voice, "Something is wrong…", swayed briefly, and collapsed on the ground. And since then, Onua has withdrawn into sour drink and brooding.

Daine understands: she herself never doubted that he would be fine – after everything they've been through, to be brought down by a tiny magical crisis would be unthinkable. But Onua doesn't have the luxury of that perspective. And all this time, she has been thinking how she had not gone after him, until Daine returned from the Gods and ridden off in a blaze of glory. Which to Onua means that she had basically left her friend to die, alone, in a willow grove by the river.

And Daine knows that that is ridiculous. But she also knows, while Onua is drinking her sour milk, she won't be ready to talk about these feelings.

Anyway, it has gotten better – he is awake, and conscious and talking all day. And today's update – that he can finally leave, and sleep in his own quarters – makes Daine a little breathless and giddy. It means that, finally, she can see him alone.

"Onua, I'm going." She says decisively, standing up and having to catch herself slightly after a brief moment of dizziness. Onua nods at her distractedly, taking another swig from her clay jar, and Daine swings the bridles over her shoulder and heads out of the stables, grateful to escape the sickly sour smell and the heaviness of her friend's heart.

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The tent and its interior are untouched from when the camp hands set it up. Someone had even tracked down his pack, leaving it to sit in the corner, a tattered, awkward testament of their unreal ordeal. Daine lets the tent flap fall behind her, and makes her way over to the cot. It's dim inside, and quiet, the noise of the camp muffled by the canvas as well as the wards their friends had put up for it.

She toes her boots off and sits on the cot, resting her forehead on her knees and feeling, for the first time in some time, a version of relief. It had been a bizarre and difficult few days. She thought she had been prepared, in whatever way she could be, to face the chaos of their return from the Realms. What she hadn't been ready for was having to do it alone. The magnitude of work allowed her to avoid most questions, but it couldn't protect her from feeling crushingly alone at the end of the day, at night.

In some ways, being with their closest friends was more difficult. Those who had thought he had died once already were faced with losing him again, even as they tallied the ranks of those already gone. And then to have him wake up – and be Alanna's.

Daine sighs as she slides onto her side, simultaneously aware of how ridiculous she is being, and unable to staunch the swell of possessiveness. He feels so utterly hers, she has to remind herself that the pain others feel for him is real as well.

She presses her cheek against his unused pillow, and listens to the sounds of the camp outside.

The next moment she's aware, she is curled up in the blankets, the tent is filled with an eerie purple light, and he is standing directly over her, looking down.

Daine gasps quietly, and struggles up into a sitting position.

The space is dark, and the steady quiet outside means that it is much later in the night. And he is right there, motionless and silent, but odd and forbidding as well. In his hand he is holding the source of the odd light – a small stone object, glowing violet. It breaks up the darkness but also disorients with long, odd-angled shadows.

Daine feels her heart beat fast, and tries to focus on keeping her breath even. She suddenly feels painfully nervous and unsure.

"Hi." She says quietly, unable to put a louder voice into the space.

He is still and quiet, and for a moment she feels a shudder of uncertainty. Was it wrong for her to come here? Was it presumptuous? Certainly before the war she would never have thought of sneaking into his tent and falling asleep in his bed. But things have changed, haven't they, and now she doesn't know where the line is. She watches him, breathless.

In the gloom, his face seems foreign, his eyes up-lit into shadow, his expression unreadable. He is wearing different clothes and moves in a slower, more deliberate way.

"I was hoping I would see you tonight." He says quietly, and Daine's heart squeezes with tenderness, and then lets go with a flood of relief. Because his voice is soft and warm and a little hesitant, the way she has come to know it. It's a cadence special to times when it's just them, in dim and quiet spaces.

"Hi…" She breathes again, feeling relieved and pleased and wanting to say more, but unsure what to say next. "What time is it?" She asks, for want of anything better.

He crosses closer, and places the glowing object on the stand besides the cot, cartwheeling long shadows around the room, and continuing to look at her. "It's very late." He says. "I'm sorry, I was delayed."

She's about to rush out some reply, but consciously keeps silent, trying to prevent herself from chattering with nerves. She's pleased that he was expecting to find her here. That, without conference, they managed to find each other. Like they always do.

He pauses, hesitating, and then says something that makes her heart hit hard against her ribs.

"May I join you?"

Daine feels her throat tighten, as well as her belly, and lower. She has no idea what his question is implying. She doesn't know what he's asking – just that she's in his bed, and it's not the casual sharing of space. It's different.

"Yes." She says, just above a whisper. Not sure what she is agreeing to, but knowing by the pounding of her heart, the racing tension in her body – it probably doesn't matter – she wants him near more than anything else.

His expression, still unreadable from the upturned shadows, does not change. But he begins to undress, slowly. Moving his arms carefully, as though movements still cause him pain, he begins to unto the clasps of the unfamiliar mage's robe. Then, the ties of a long-sleeved shirt. And as he gingerly takes it off, Daine watches the odd side-light bring the contours of his body into sharp contrast. She watches the muscles across his shoulders and abdomen contract as he moves, slowly and carefully. There is still a thick bandage around the lower aspect of his chest.

He stands shirtless, his hair unbound around his shoulders, his face soft. And she's aware that while he has been hers for such a long time, _this _version had never been for her before. Some version of this used to be for the beautiful, blond buxom lovers of his. But even in her uncertainly, she knows that this softness, this tenderness in him is hers alone.

Her breath has quickened and she is hyper-aware of the hard beating of her heart, realizing there is so much more to him, and to this romance, than she had naively thought about to this point.

He walks around the bed, disappearing briefly from the edge of her vision. She first hears then feels the rustle of the sheets as he lifts up the covers, then the slow, ginger transfer of weight as he lowers himself down into the cot. The bed sags a little, and she carefully lays back down. The glow of the violet stone presses brightly into against her vision, and she reaches down to the floor, picking up his shirt and covering the object with it. With Alanna's light muffled, the tent falls into darkness.

She feels the press of his chest against her back, then his breath, warm and soft and even, against her hair. He draws the blankets over them both, trailing his hand over her shoulder, her side, and finally slipping around her to rest underneath her shirt against her belly.

"Daine." He says quietly, and she feels him speak more that she hears him as his voice fades a little. "I am so glad you are here."

And she would reply if she could, but now, wrapped entirely in his arms, she is enveloped in his scent as well. The same one that is so uniquely his, that no one would ever think to fake. And all their years are condensed to this one moment. Shutting her eyes tight against gathering tears, she lifts his hand from her belly, clasped firmly in her own, and presses it to her lips.


End file.
